


The Princess and the Huntsman

by luthorienne



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:53:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthorienne/pseuds/luthorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clint makes a new friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Princess and the Huntsman

They pulled into the truck stop shortly before midnight. Clint turned off the ignition and stretched, feeling muscles in his back and shoulders pop. 

“Jasper,” he said quietly to the sleeping man next to him. Sitwell came awake instantly and sat up, looking around the lot.

It was a pretty typical interstate truck stop: gas bars and a building that had started as a simple gas station, but which over time had added a restaurant, showers and convenience store, so it had expanded, amoeba-like, sideways across the asphalt lot. And, of course, there were rigs, half-a-dozen in a ragtail line on the highway side of the lot.

“Where are we?” Sitwell asked, settling his glasses more comfortably on his nose.

“’Bout ninety minutes south of home. We need gas, I need the bathroom, and it’s your turn to drive.” He nodded at the restaurant. “You want to eat?”

“Not unless you’re hungry.”

“No, I’m good. You could get some coffee to go, though, and maybe some doughnuts.” He was reaching for the door handle when the door of the nearest tractor unit flew open and a dog flew out, propelled by a booted foot. The dog landed hard, yelping, and a disheveled man in jeans, a half-buttoned plaid shirt and the aforementioned boots emerged from the truck, cursing.

“Goddamn fuckin’ useless bitch!” he yelled, aiming another kick at the dog, who dodged, cowering. Furious, the man snatched at the dog’s collar, lifting it off the ground and shaking it twice before throwing the dog back down on the ground. Cursing, he lurched toward the toilets, still muttering. Sitwell looked apprehensively at Clint, who was staring expressionlessly at the dog. 

“Oh, Barton,” he groaned. “Please don’t.”

“What?” Clint said mildly, making a ‘who-me?’ gesture as he opened the door. “Fill ‘er up, Jasper, and get us some coffee to go. I’ve gotta take a leak.”

He detoured enroute to the toilets to crouch by the trembling dog, who flinched away from him but was still breathing, at least. After a moment, it stretched out its neck to sniff and then lick weakly at his hand, coughing a little. He nodded wordlessly and rose, turning to the stucco ell that housed the toilets.

There were two urinals side-by-side in the men’s room, faintly blue-tinged in the sputtering fluorescent light. Mr. Boots was standing unsteadily before the left-hand one. He reeked of booze, and Clint immediately flashed back to his father, rampaging through their house, smashing things at random, looking for Clint, or Barney, or their mother, just wanting someone to hit. 

“I don’t like the way you treat your dog, man,” he said conversationally, grasping a handful of the man’s greasy hair and slamming him face-first into the urinal wall, leaving a red smear on the porcelain.

“Wh-“ was all the man said before Clint slammed an elbow into his cheekbone. The man crumpled to the floor like a stringless puppet.

“That dog’s a lot better looking than you are,” Clint continued, landing a kick to the man’s midsection and feeling ribs break, “and I’ll bet it’s a lot smarter than you, too.” He aimed another kick at the prone man’s belly and nudged his outstretched arm aside with his boot as he stepped up to the right-hand urinal. He did his business efficiently, tucked himself away, and crossed to the sink to wash his hands. Blood was leaking from the man’s smashed nose and split lips, oozing into the grimy grout between the floor tiles. He could hear the man’s laboured breathing making a bubbly sound over the buzz of the fluorescent lights. Clint tossed his used paper towel in the overflowing wastebasket. “I don’t like bullies, and I don’t like mean drunks,” he said pleasantly as he crossed to the door. “And I really don’t like assholes who hurt animals.”

Out in the lot, Jasper was approaching with paper cups of coffee in a tray, a plastic sack of snacks and a resigned expression. Clint grinned at him and crossed to the dog, who was lying on the asphalt, licking its flank awkwardly, coughing hoarsely from time to time. Clint crouched just out of reach, and the dog regarded him warily. 

“Hey, baby, how you doin’?” he said softly. The dog stared at him a long moment, then struggled to its feet and approached him cautiously, limping on one hind leg. 

“Hey, sweetheart, how are you?” Clint murmured, reaching out to caress long ears that should have been silky, but which were matted with crusted food. “You need somebody who appreciates you, don’t you, baby?”

The dog sat down next to him, coughed roughly, and rested its head on Clint’s knee. In his peripheral vision, Clint could see Sitwell facepalming. Clint chose to ignore him.

“You want to come with me and be a big, bad fuzzy agent of SHIELD?” Clint asked, and was rewarded with a tentative tail-wag and a hopeful look. He gathered up the dog gently in his arms, mindful of injuries, and started toward the car. As they passed the rig, the dog began to whimper hoarsely, straining toward the tractor.

“You don’t live there anymore, baby,” Clint said. The dog licked his face, but strained toward the truck again. Curious, Clint reached up and opened the unlocked door.

The dog leaped out of his arms into the cab, disappearing for a moment into a noisome tangle of blankets in the back. For a second, Clint thought he’d have to go in after her – he’d noted, as she burrowed in, that she was female – but she emerged almost immediately with a ripped and matted stuffed bear in her mouth, and launched herself into Clint’s arms like an acrobat.

“All right baby!” Clint said proudly. “Aren’t you a smart girl! We’re not leaving our toys for that fuckhead to play with, no sir!”

He could see Sitwell trying to stifle laughter as he got in with the dog, who seemed perfectly content to curl up in Clint’s arms, though she gave Jasper’s hand a lick as he fondled her ears.

“Pretty smart, huh?” Clint grinned. “She went back for her stuff!”

Jasper shook his head, letting his grin break out as he put the car in gear. 

“What is she, some kind of spaniel?” he asked. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, I think she’s a springer,” Clint said, running gentle hands over her limbs and body. “I can’t feel anything broken, but she’s ‘way too thin, and she’s been neglected. You need a spa day, don’t you, baby?” he said to the dog, who coughed once, upended herself in his lap, and offered her belly for a rub. 

“Is the guy breathing?” Sitwell asked when they were a few miles down the road. Clint shrugged. 

“He was when I finished washing my hands,” he replied indifferently. “I don’t give a shit, really.”

“That’s a lie,” Sitwell said. Clint frowned at him.

“What the fuck, Jasper? I really don’t give a shit.”

“Not that. I don’t believe you washed your hands.”

Clint gave him an incredulous look, then turned to look out the window, biting his lip to hide his smile.

“Really, Sitwell? I was raised in a circus, not in a barn.”

“What is it with you and strays, anyway, Barton?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“This little girl, the Black Widow, that damn cat in Boise –“

“Okay, Natasha would kick your ass for including her in that list,” Barton replied. “Anyway, Fury loves that cat.”

“Of course he does! It’s a one-eyed black cat with a take-no-prisoners attitude.” He was silent another half-mile. “Okay, so now what?”

Barton reached down and gently unbuckled the dog’s collar, opening his window enough to throw it out into the darkness. 

“Now you find me a 24-hour WalMart,” he replied. Sitwell groaned.

“Of course.” He shook his head. “We were only ninety minutes from home, goddammit.”

“Pay no attention to him, Princess,” Clint said to the dog, who had been lying blissed-out in his lap. 

 

Though each of the Avengers had his or her own floor in the tower, they frequently gathered in the big communal kitchen in the penthouse for breakfast. When Clint entered the next morning with Princess at his side, he found Tony, Steve and Bruce already there, working their way through a pile of French toast. As he crossed to the table, all conversation ceased. Tony was frozen with his fork halfway to his mouth.

“Is that a _dog_ , Legolas?” he asked incredulously. Clint took his seat, Princess sitting proudly by his chair. She and Clint had spent some quality time with doggy shampoo and a brush, and her black-and-white coat was gleaming.

“Very observant, Stark,” Clint replied, helping himself to French toast and the syrup. 

“Where did it come from?”

Bruce cleared his throat. “Well, generally speaking, a mommy dog and a daddy dog –“ he began, but was drowned out by laughter.

“I took her away from a drunk who was beating her up,” Clint said. “I hate that, you know? Guys get drunk and they think they can punch out all their issues on somebody weaker than them. I fuckin’ hate bullies. Bruce, if you have time later today, can you take a look at her? I don’t think she has any broken bones, but if you could check, I’d feel better.”

“Sure.”

“What are you going to do with her, Clint?” Steve asked, extending a hand for Princess to sniff. 

Clint looked down at her, fondling her ears. 

“I’d like to keep her,” he said finally, not looking up. “I always wanted a dog, but I couldn’t keep one in my quarters, and then Phil didn’t want one, so…” 

“Of course, you’re keeping her,” Tony said firmly. “I mean, look at her – she’s a classy babe. She belongs here.” Across the table, Steve and Bruce exchanged knowing looks.

Clint flashed him a smile. 

“She’s pretty smart,” he said. “And she’s really good-natured.”

“What’s her name?” Bruce asked.

“Princess.”

Tony extended a hand, which Princess padded over to sniff. Apparently approving of Tony, she put her chin down on his knee.

“Okay, you’re not allowed to be smart and beautiful,” Tony said, petting her head. “That’s my shtick.”

“She is, though,” Clint grinned, calling her back. “Look what she can do.” He took a muffin from the basket in the centre of the table and set it on the edge of the table in front of Princess. He pointed to the muffin. “Princess, you’re in charge of guarding that muffin. Don’t let anybody take it except me, okay?”

Princess focused her whole attention on the muffin. At Clint’s nod, Steve reached for the muffin – whereupon Princess lifted her lip delicately to show teeth. Steve withdrew his hand, winning a doggy grin from Princess. 

“Holy cow, Clint, that is pretty smart,” Steve said. “How did you teach her that?”

“Trade secret,” Clint grinned, retrieving the muffin and crumbling off a bit of it as a reward for Princess. “You wait, in a couple days she’ll be dancing and singing.”

She wasn’t actually singing, but within the week, Clint had taught her to shake a paw, turn down the bed, bring her empty food dish to be washed, put her toys away, and put dirty clothes in the hamper – as well as muffin-guarding duties and all the usual obedience commands. She liked the other Avengers and Sitwell, but it was clear she belonged heart and soul to Clint. When he walked in the door, if he held out his arms and beckoned to her, she would launch herself into his embrace, and she slept on the foot of his bed every night. She won Tony over by making friends with Dummy and You, Clint contending she was smarter than either of them. He was down in Tony’s lab one day with Princess when he saw her assume the “pointer” position, focusing intently on something at the base of the workbench. Clint crouched to investigate and saw a spider about the size of the end of his thumb.

“Hey, Tony, check this out,” he said. “I didn’t teach her to do this.”

Tony bent to look, let out a squeak like a startled hamster, and Clint would later swear he levitated to the top of the workbench. Clint and Princess gazed at him levelly for a moment before Clint rose from his crouch and Princess resumed her point.

“Seriously?” Clint said. “Spiders?”

Tony said nothing for a moment, then ducked his head, the tips of his ears bright red.

“Don’t tell Natasha,” he mumbled. Clint shook his head, crouching again to catch the spider in a cupped hand.

“I won’t say a word,” he promised, heading for the roof garden, Princess following attentively in his wake. When they returned, spiderless, Tony was just climbing down.

“It’s not that I’m afraid of them, or anything,” he said defensively. Clint nodded.

“No, of course not,” he replied.

“It’s just –“ He shuddered. “They have all those _legs_.”

“They do,” Clint agreed. Both of them looked at Princess, who whined softly, unsure of their expectations. Clint patted her head reassuringly. “Princess, from now on, you scan Tony’s lab every day for spiders, okay?”

Princess woofed agreeably. 

At the end of the month, Clint received a bank statement addressed to “Mr. C. Barton In Trust For Ms. P. Barton, MP, SP.” Baffled, he opened it to find Stark Industries had deposited $50.00 in a savings account – for Princess. Hardly less baffled, he went down to the communal kitchen, where Tony was assembling a sandwich, Bruce already at the table, reading a scientific journal as he sipped his tea.

“What the hell, Tony? You put my dog on the payroll?”

“Well, not actually on the payroll. I mean, she doesn’t have a social security number, or anything. But, yeah.”

“So, what’s this ‘MP, SP’?”

“’Muffin Police’,” Bruce murmured.

“And, uh – ‘Superb Pointing’,” Tony added hastily. “Whoops, gotta go.”

As he vanished, dripping sandwich in hand, Clint and Bruce exchanged a level look.

“Spider Patrol?” Bruce asked. 

“Superior Pooch,” Clint corrected, fondling Princess’ ears. Giving them both a doggy grin, Princess woofed in agreement.

**Author's Note:**

> Something a bit sweeter in honour of the approaching holidays.


End file.
